


as i lay sleeping

by silentsaint



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming Untouched, Complicated Relationships, Dominant Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII), During Canon, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Spanking, Submissive Cloud Strife, the usual psychological fuckery that comes with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsaint/pseuds/silentsaint
Summary: It beggars belief, how much sensation can be exchanged through two layers of cloth and leather.Kinktober 2020 - Week 1: Spanking
Relationships: Sephiroth & Cloud Strife, Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79





	as i lay sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> first year doing kinktober!! only doing one prompt per week, so let's see how this goes. i don't normally write explicit nsfw, so this is honestly something of a writing exercise.

_Hands curl around his wrists, squeezing until it feels as though the delicate bones of the wrist will snap under the pressure. Weight bores down on top of him, and eyes alight with the glow of madness stare down at him, pinning him under their stare even more than the body_ physically on top of his own, here, real, now, flesh, blood-

A curious feeling of emptiness, as a man hooded in black moans hoarsely on the ground. A strange and far away ache, as Tifa’s soft voice cuts through the haze of unknowing and tethers him to reality. 

Cloud stares at the bare ceiling of the apartment, and doesn’t think to bother wondering why it is that he can’t sleep.

Something crawls beneath his skin, that odd and tingly _awareness_ that has been constantly flowing through his veins ever since he entered SOLDIER. A heightened sensitivity to physical stimuli and stressors, but in turn also a heightened resolve to withstand it. 

At least...that was probably the idea that someone had, in designing the damn idea.

He doesn’t bother shutting his eyes. Sleep is an elusive bedfellow on the best of days, coming only when his resolve has been worn down by exhaustion enough to let slumber seep through. ‘Insomnia’ some might label it, though Cloud is more inclined to call the phenomenon mere restlessness.

It’s achingly clear he won’t be able to sleep like this. Not with something in his chest still racing, an ache in his bone marrow that hasn’t quite gone away since the alleyway in Sector 8.

Since...whatever it was had worked its way up into his head and decided that Cloud Strife’s life wasn’t already beset by enough annoyances, and painful headachey hallucinations of a face long dead were key to spicing things up.

The room is dark, with only the slimmest strip of light making its way through the door frame. It is most likely closer to sunrise than sunset, considering the reactor mission ate up more than a few hours of the night, but even so the darkness below the plate is a deep and inky thing. It’s gloom is no match for mako-eyes however, and the cracked and battered planes of the ceiling are unfortunately clear in Cloud’s line of sight.

The trouble begins...when suddenly it is not.

Cloud’s breath catches hard in his throat, and his itching veins burst into _flames._

“Can’t sleep?” The voice is breathy, quiet, and much too close for comfort. 

Words bubble up to rest at the back of his tongue, and falter and stumble into incoherence when they reach his lips. Eyes widened, heart hammering, Cloud beholds the sight.

His nightmare, seated atop him for the second time this night, staring down at him with unholy glee painted across his ashen rosy mouth.

The initial instinct is to thrash against the position, as he had done before. But this time, his sword is but a few feet further away, and something drops in the pit of Cloud’s stomach as he throws his hand to the side and becomes all too keenly aware of that fact.

 _I’mgoingto-_

His wrist is duly caught up in the motion, and held in a grip like a vice. “And what kind of greeting is that, for someone who has brought you a gift?” The voice, _that_ voice, curls though his veins like the finest honey and the ashen smoke of a burning village.

“Cloud.” Panic, a burning ice flooding through him and rendering complex motor function impossible, tastes bitter in his dry mouth. “You don’t seem to understand, yet.” His other wrist is caught up in much the same manner, pressed back against the stiffness of the bed before he can even think of directing a blow or squirming for freedom.

Fear and rage coil themselves into a tangle of livewires and angry, snapping sparks. Cloud bares his teeth at the man _ghostapparitionmemory_ currently sitting on top of him, and attempts a sneer.

_“Get out of my head.”_

Sephiroth’s smile widens, a cold and calamitous expression. “Our head, Cloud.”

With a wordless noise of rage, Cloud thrusts his body weight upwards, uncaring of the exact effect other than getting that godsdamn expression off of a corpse’s face. 

The attempt carries him forward, indeed more forward than he could’ve rightly expected from such an uncalculated and uncoordinated motion. The weight pulls back from across his hips, as though the mirage does indeed fade with the slightest touch.

His waist is seized with the next instant, and Cloud finds himself bent over a lap that seems solid enough to crush him, eye to eye with the blanket.

A harsh sound echoes out, and the resulting spark of pain and the smarting of his skin feels entirely unrelated, for a few blissful moments of cerebral delay. It takes an extra few seconds, for his mind to catch up with the rest of him, and for the mere concept of what is happening to settle into place. 

Did...did Sephiroth just...

It’s enough of a shock that humiliation doesn’t even begin to seep through. It simply is. He simply is. This is the way of things, as they exist in this moment.

He doesn’t feel the fingers tracing slow patterns over the back of his shirt. Perhaps it’s for the better. Perhaps not. The ghost doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.

Touch for the sake of touch. A connection that is impossible to reject, and so all the better to embrace it. What point is there in resisting, when they are so close that they brush against the border of indistinguishable?

_Stop....thoughts....my head....not mine._

_Even if...if I..._

When he finally finds the voice in his chest, it filters through breathless and thin. “What are you-hnn!!”

Another _spank_ collides with his backside, and the sheer inconceivability of what is happening begins to finally sink in.

“I said I brought you a present, didn’t I?” The _voice_ worms it’s way under his skin, echoing around his skull, until for a moment Cloud would almost have believed he had said the words himself. It’s sickly sweet, something dark and heady and utterly poisonous.

It’s intoxicating.

With mounting horror, he recognizes the warm and violent pressure building up at the apex of his thighs. Something sinful is coiling through the muscles of his abdomen, a blinding and ephemeral rush that should absolutely _not_ be happening from this position alone.

The ghost with a deeply familiar face shouldn’t be able to see him, not when his face is downturned to hide as much as possible. And still, it feels as though every ounce of his shame is being gleefully inhaled, yet one more thing to burn through and illuminate every hideous corner before it goes up in ash.

He’s being spanked, by the man who burned his town down, and he’s _getting off on it._

_Wake up. Someone wake me up, please-!!_

Some sort of strangled plea must breach his lips, because a leather gloved hand trails over the coiled muscles of his back and neck, in some parody of soothing. 

“Relax, Cloud.” Fingers ruffle over the back of his hair, painting out a deceptively calming path around the crown of his head and back down the line of his spine. The whisper leans closer to him, until warm breath coasts against the shell of his ear. 

_“All is as it should be.”_

Another slap lands across the meeting of his thighs, and Cloud’s back arches on pure instinct, drawing in a keening breath to recover from the sting. He twists, either towards or away from the blow, even his body doesn’t seem to be sure. 

_“Please.”_ He’s begging to a ghost, and somehow it has ceased to matter. “P-please…”

For a moment, his cries seem to have gone unheeded. A dry sob mangles it’s way out of Cloud’s throat, and something within him twists and seizes with a compulsive _need._ Releasing all attempts at dignity, his back arches further, hips shamelessly turning upwards towards the admonishing hand.

_Please. I can’t. I can’t do this at all._

Just as tears of mingled frustration and frantic, racing, pain-pleasure have begun to form, he is rewarded for such a show of indignity. The hand smacks him again, and suddenly the world is finally aglow, burning white and sundered into nothingness in the back of his eyelids. His chest is burning, his face must be a crimson red, to say nothing of the painful sting at the back of his thighs.

The rushed orgasm hurtles through him with all the force of a tidal wave, and the only scattered and incoherent thought he can begin to form is _am I still alive?_

_Or did I die, and was this the ghost who was awaiting me?_

As if from far away, there is the sensation of tears dripping from his face and falling to litter the worn blanket with their salt. Sweat? Tears? Of exhaustion or exhilaration? His hands clench fists into the sheets, trembling with the combined nerves and aftershock.

The body firmly beneath him does not move. He doesn’t dare twist around to look at it’s face.

The blanket is slightly rough on the side of his face. Cloud gasps for air, and prays to whatever formless and nameless things heed prayers that no one can hear his strangled attempts at drawing breath. The mess between his legs is irrelevant, falling secondary to the simple drag of _inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._

 _What are you,_ he thinks, strewn about the apparition’s lap like some kind of perverted rag doll. _And what am I to you?_ The skin of his back and legs are still alight like some sort of firecracker, left to die in the hearth’s ashes while still feebly sparking.

_...why does your unwanted presence feel like a homecoming?_

“Good boy, Cloud.” The hushed voice beneath his skin feels unbearably saccharine in it’s twisted approval. “You did very well.” 

Cloud draws in a ragged breath. The blankness in his mind is almost soothing compared to the wordless rushing whispers that normally creep about in the corners.

Almost.


End file.
